Sunday, February 6, 2011

Escape from Alytraz

I've decided I live for escape. (I actually found this out when I was five and only wanted to pretend to be a mermaid and eat Popsicles all day; raspberry chlorine should be a new flavor.) I think even if I spent all day writing - not freelance marketing presentations, or pro bono work for mooching loved ones - but real writing... The kind that has no restrictions or reviewers (at least until you're lucky enough to get a slash-and-burn agent and editor)... The kind that allows for mermaids and Popsicle breaks...

I'd still want to do be doing something else.

I'd still live for reading over writing, watching TV and movies over ocean waves and the view from a hike or bike ride, eating over running. But we know what's good for us, right? So these purely entertaining activities are tainted. Tainted enough that we do our very best to bear our Alcatraz-like routines of work, diet and exercise, and [insert appropriate obligation here: such as vacuuming, cooking casseroles, giving your kid or dog a bath, taking care of your other kid/pet, also known as your spouse], to stave off the guilt when it comes time to party.

The flip-side is how alluring a prison is to me sometimes. Maybe not Alcatraz. Maybe more like an upstanding mental institution or behavioral medicine center, or psych ward full of interesting, funny, dark people. Who wouldn't want to lounge around in a comfy jumpsuit (extra great if you get the cool, blue uniform and cotton-y sweatshirts akin to the Prison Break costumes), or your one pair of pajamas you had when admitted (you don't even have to stress about what sweats to wear).

The day would consist of reading on your bunk (watching cable if you're on death row), playing ping pong, feeling better about yourself after hearing about other people's problems in "group," having some interested, highly educated person listen to you vent about your day - versus your partner, who's just as tired from the daily grind as you - washing down happy pills with apple juice, getting praise for things like eating all your food, screaming your emotions but not hitting, and organizing a pizza party or joining the inmate writing program.

Sounds pretty fucking awesome to me. If it weren't for the rapists, restraints and wake-up calls, it'd be a pretty sweet deal. Juvie even sounded good to my 13-year-old self. All society expects of you is to not shank someone. But no matter how many dense peers, teachers or managers you'd get to avoid - no matter how many tests, sprints, veggies, bills, tax returns, and loads of laundry - institutionalized life would probably still suck. Because there's always someone to answer to, even if it's just God.

For now, I have to live on the Today show and America's Newsroom, lunch (the best time of any day), Netflix, the hus, walking the dog, and wine - but not too much on this one, chickabee, because then you end up worshiping the porcelain basin. For now, I have to live on things like these. And this:

And these: (The theme songs themselves are like sensory-absorbed Prozac.)

As Leslie Knope would say, when it gets to be too much, count backwards from 1,000 by sevens and think of warm brownies.

Or, let a puppy lick your face.

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Blog usability research (AKA Ai student Cody Delmar) shows men click, and women scroll. But the hus says he likes scrolling. And I like clicking. We're probably just weird. What do you prefer? Endless scrolling... The ability to scroll through a handful of posts... Or, do you like the organized archive as a map to past posts from your favorite bloggers? What way were you born to enjoy your momentary escape?